Anne
He sighed as I went on staring at the tray he’d placed on my lap. It was tempting—but why would he do this? Toast, in his bed. He’d used my pink and gold mug, complete with the ceramic lid, the gold spoon resting inside.
The coffee and breakfast I could understand. But the toast? Never.
I raised my head. His navy suit jacket was pushed back by his arms, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. My suspicion was annoying him.
“Either you’re okay with hard, dried breadcrumbs working their way up your arse crack in our bed, or you’re trying to drug me. Which is it?” I asked, crossing my arms over my naked breasts.
He flinched—at the thought, or because I’d caught him trying to murder me. Then his face cleared to something self-righteous.
“Poison,” he scoffed. “I would make you live a thousand lives from the cuts of my blade before I killed you.”
I mulled it over, then shrugged. He sounded sincere. I lifted the lid from my mug, steam billowing up over the full English he’d cooked for me, rich with the smell of bacon fat and buttered toast.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
“Now give me some sugar. I need to get to work,” he murmured.
I leaned over the tray, and he kissed me long and slow enough to give me my first taste of coffee for the day.
“Be a bad girl,” he murmured against my wet lips before standing.
I blew him a kiss as he turned to leave, wondering if he’d be pissed if I killed Ashlyn. He looked and smelled far too good for work.
I raised my mug and sipped. Perfectly brewed.
Good employees were hard to recruit. I decided to retreat and observe. For now.
?? ?? ??
I was probably asking to be massacred at this point, but it didn’t stop me hitting send. The video showed the toast crumbs on his side of the bed, slowly zooming out so he could take in the full desecration.
“Fuck,” I muttered, realising I might never get breakfast in bed again.
A message popped up.
Ethan: Why can’t you send me nudes like a normal fiancée?
Me: You already have quite the Anne collection from the playroom.
Ethan: There isn’t enough. We should make another movie.
I chuckled and tapped a social media icon to watch some mindless videos. The exhibition was a success, and I didn’t need to paint until the urge came. I was about to scroll when red block lettering stopped my thumb.
Suspended sentences for three men who sexually assaulted a teen.
I tapped read more.
Fifteen years old. Groomed on social media for weeks. Alcohol. Livestreaming. The man had phoned his friends, who came and participated in the back of the van. Videos made and distributed.
The victim’s statement.
I want to die. I’m no longer afraid. You took my innocence from me. I won’t ever get it back.
My eyes darted across the room and fixed on his lavish walk-in wardrobe—anywhere but the screen. I exhaled slowly and searched what a suspended sentence was.
A deferred jail sentence, for rehabilitation purposes. The defendants wouldn’t serve a day if they behaved for a period of time. I went back to the judge’s decision.
Eleven months.
Eight months.
Eight months.
All deferred. One to two years.
I googled suspended sentences for sexual assault on a child.
The links loaded. Child abuse images and sexual assault—little to no jail time.
It didn’t surprise me. But when I realised how many cases left the victims knowing their abuser was still out there, walking the same streets, I put my phone down.
Like a masochist, I picked it up and clicked another link.
…the most serious category for producing sexual abuse images of children. Over 509 images.
Judge Mathew Atkinson said: “He could not face the fact that he was interested in these images. It was an addiction.”
Stephen Carling, of St Charles Road, Beirley, denied the offences he was convicted of.
Suspended sentence. 250 hours of community service. Ten years on the register.
Tap. Read.
Tap. Read.
Tap. Read.
I continued until I was numb.
Men being sentenced by men.
Children and women left vulnerable. Most victims probably couldn’t even afford to leave the area—the social housing lists were a debacle. I’d tried to hide outside once. In the school. In the apartment corridor. Closets. Under a car one night, gravel biting into my cheek.
With a ragged breath, I went back to the first three. This time I went to the police website and screenshotted the rapists’ faces.
These men, from their teens to their sixties. There was no reform where there were no consequences.
I set the tray aside and knotted my hair above my head. Climbed out of bed. Went into the wardrobe and collected my knife set from the bottom drawer.
In a trance, I walked out of the bedroom and down to the basement. Ethan wouldn’t like the mess. I didn’t care.
I reached the basement door.
Unlocked it.
The Frenchman looked up at me as if I were his saviour.
I ignored the pleas and set the suede roll on the metal table, untying it, rolling it flat. My fingers travelled the knives, the chisel.
I’d never relied on a broken system built by men, for men. I ended them and drank their blood.
I slid a knife free and pressed the flat of the cold metal against my heated cheek.
What a glorious day this would be.